


From the Ashes a Dragon

by Daemon_Belaerys



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, F/F, F/M, Incest, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow's 'true name' is Aemon Targaryen, Mix between books and show, Multi, Murder, Oral Sex, Rape, Sansa must Sansa, Sexposition, Teen Pregnancy, The Tully Train continues, Threesome - F/F/M, Valyria, gameofthrones - Freeform, heavy au, timetravel, underage somewhat noncon sex, unfaithful, violation of slaves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-08 22:50:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daemon_Belaerys/pseuds/Daemon_Belaerys
Summary: As Jon's fateful stabbing ends differently, so does history change for better or worse. Timetravel, Heavy AU, Focus on Magic, Valyria. Both show and books driven. Usual warnings apply for GoT/ASoIaF: Smut, Incestuous Wincest Extreme Violence, Character Death, Davos being awesome, Rape, Littlefinger being his usual cuntish self.





	1. And from the Ashes the Dragon woke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aerion_Veryzes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerion_Veryzes/gifts), [DragonsKing83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsKing83/gifts).



_Disclaimer: My old disclaimer starved to death so I've managed to breed a new one: I do not claim any ownership of this piece nor the works it is inspired from, with the exception of any OC's, they're MINE!_

" _Blah": High Valyrian._

"Blah": Common Tongue.

' _Blah': Thoughts_

**And from the ashes the Dragon woke.**

**Castle Black: Ser Alliser.**

Ser Alliser Thorne looked down at the cold bloody corpse of Lord Commander Snow with smug satisfaction. He may be a man of the Watch, but in his heart he had always, and would always remain a Targaryen loyalist. He had held off killing the twice over traitor's bastard as long as he had solely out of respect for Maester Aemon, but Maester Aemon was dead, and Alliser Throne had refused to follow Jon Snow one more day, lest he get them all killed.

"Fetch wood and oil for a pyre," he barked at the other mutineers.

Soon after the men left the blasted direwolf started howling.

"Go in there and kill that wolf," he ordered the others who glanced between themselves.

"The wolf won't be 'appy whi'us after this he won't," one of the older lads who had been a relatively loyal dogsbody for Alliser for years said.

"Fook me," another muttered.

"Ain't no way I'm gonna go inter the same room as that bloody wolf, not me," a third man protested.

"I'll do it," Olly, the young lad who had stabbed Snow in the heart said.

"It's a shame when a lad of two and ten has more guts and bigger balls than the rest of you twats combined," Alliser mocked them just as a few of the men returned with armfuls of wood, straw, branches and oil.

While the rest of the men certainly didn't appreciate Alliser's insults, they let them lie, ' _anyfing to stay away from tha' wolf,'_ more than one man thought.

A quick pyre was hastily cobbled together and Snow was unceremoniously dumped atop of it and oil poured over him afterwards.

"He was my Lord Commander," Ser Alliser started. "And he was the bastard son of a whore and a traitor who would have destroyed the Night's Watch, but now his watch is ended."

"And now his watch is ended," the others muttered.

Dropping the torch onto Jon Snow's chest, several things happened at once. A panicked agonizing scream and accompanying vengeful snarls signified Olly meeting what sounded to be a gruesome end. Flames started to lick over Snow's corpse as wildfire amongst a field of dry grass. The sound of doors slamming open all around them as brothers of the Night's Watch poked their noses out to figure out what all the fuss was about. And lastly the Red Woman was looking towards them with a look of horror in her eyes as she held out her arm as if to try and stop them.

"YOU FOOKIN TRAITORS!" Ser Davis and Dolorous Edd shouted simultaneously

Alliser was about to take control of the situation, truly, he was. But just as he was prepared to shout the others into submission something happened.

The Red Woman groaned as if in pain. Falling to her knees, the entirety of Castle Black watched in shock as the ruby around her neck glowed. The brighter it glowed the older the woman looked until she looked like an ancient crone. As this happened the fire consuming Jon Snow's corpse shone just as strongly and grew to such prominence and intensity that the top of the flames flickered above even the tallest tower in Castle Black. The heat was so unbearable that several men collapsed, even Alliser barely held his tongue as he felt his skin blister all over.

"WHUS 'APPENIN?" Chell, one of the mutineers screamed.

' _Whatever is happening it can't be good,'_ Alliser thought worriedly as the flames grew brighter, until they were so bright that everyone had to avert their eyes. A mere moment later every inhabitant was blown off their feet at the cataclysmic explosion of heat and light.

Waking up, Alliser vaguely noted that not a single speck of snow could be seen inside the castle. A perfect crater fifteen feet across and six feet deep stood where Jon Snow's body had burnt. Of the Red Woman there was no sight, with the exception of her ruby necklace that had cracked in two and rested upon a pile of ashes. The last observation Alliser made was that his fellow mutineers had all been tied up or burnt to ashes if they had stood too close to the pyre. Standing above his fellow mutineers were the friends of the bastard who must have come to their senses first, turning his gaze to the right he was just quick enough to see the sole of Dolorous Edd's right boot introduce itself to his face.

***G*R*A*T*U*I*T*O*U*S*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*G*R*A*T*U*I*T*O*U*S*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*G*R*A*T*U*I*T*O*U*S*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R**

**Somewhere: Jon Snow.**

" _Why?"_ Jon whispered as he opened his eyes, only to look around in astonishment. A mere moment ago he had been stabbed numerous times in the chest, finished by his own steward who plunged a dagger into his heart. By that time he had been ready to just give in, the pain so great, and he was _tired_. Tired of his brothers, tired of the Free Folk, tired of this or that argument. Tired of not having a single good night's sleep as dreams of the dead woke him, but instead of rest or seeing his family again he was…here.

' _For that matter, where is here?'_ he thought. Looking around he found could see that he was in a rocky uneven terrain. Hills and rock formations all around. Sand was everywhere, along with the odd bush here or there, and some patches of grass, not to mention the heat of the sun that was boiling down on him. A small tower could be spotted in the distance, perhaps an hour or two of walking from where he stood.

With a target in mind he had barely taken three steps before a bright flash of light from behind him made him turn around.

"Lady Melisandre," he said with a hoarse voice as he averted his eyes. She looked as inhumanly beautiful as always with her crimson eyes and blood red hair, and she was currently clad in nothing but her nameday suit.

"Who are you?" she asked, curiosity and wonder alike tinted her voice.

Jon frowned, he had spoken with her mere hours before. "Jon Snow, My Lady," he told her patiently, perhaps whatever had caused her to end up in the afterlife had made her confused.

' _Impossible,'_ she whispered, before she laughed. She laughed as she hadn't done in years.

"My Lady?" he questioned.

" _Who did you say your mother was 'Jon Snow'?"_

" _My father never told me,"_ Melisandre smiled victoriously as he replied in perfect High Valyrian, likely he had never even noticed that they switched languages. If he replied instinctually in High Valyrian when proffered, the Old Blood was indeed strong in him.

" _Would you like to know?"_ she asked him.

" _How could you know? Did you meet her?"_ he asked her suspiciously.

Melisandre shook her head. " _No, but I've heard the tales, and during my years I have seen enough of your kin from near enough to recognise the truth,"_ she told him, while something showed in her eyes that Jon had never seen before… _pity_.

"Tell me," he sighed, this time replying in the common tongue.

"Lyanna Stark."

Jon gaped, _'surely she isn't suggesting?'_ "How _dare_ you?" he hissed. "My father would _never_ lay with his own sister," Jon was fuming at what she suggested, somewhat due to outrage, but also out of guilt. He had seen both the statue of his aunt Lyanna as well as drawings, and from what people said, Arya was Lyanna come again, and more than one lonely night had been spent dreaming of a far more grown up Arya, _'stop it, that's wrong,'_ he reminded his treacherous mind.

"I can assure you," Melisandre's voice had a definite amused timbre to it. "That if your father had a sister of the right age he would most definitely had lain with her, whether he would still have taken or courted your mother is a mystery."

Jon sighed as he shook his head to try and wake from whatever nightmare he was in, the Red Woman made no sense what so ever, and it was wearing on his already frayed temper. "Speak sense My Lady," he spat, "Enough of your riddles."

Melisandre bowed. "Look at your hair?" she stated simply causing Jon to furrow his brow, of all the things she could ask him, she wanted him to look at his hair.

Still if it would make her start to make sense he might as well indulge her. He should have known better, he dimly noted as he stared in shock at the lock of almost pure _white_ hair with strands of silver amongst them that he held in between his fingers. Frantically he tried to find more locks of hair, all for it to look similar to that first lock he found. Looking down he yelped as he realized for the first time that he was wearing just as little as Melisandre, and that the hair around his cock seemed to match the hair on his head.

"Your father, was Rhaegar Targaryen," Melisandre continued. Thankfully she ignored his sudden embarrassment, and was even helpful or kind enough to not deliberately look at his manhood.

Jon vaguely felt himself collapse to his knees. ' _Why?'_ he asked, ' _why would my father lie to me all these years?'_

"To protect you from the truth," came another voice, and Jon whirled his head around. Where the voice had come from stood an old man. Long snow white hair, with a wrinkled face, one of his eyes were missing, while the remaining one was as red as blood. Slung over his shoulders was a mottled old cloak, an almost perfect copy of the very same cloak Jon had worn until very recently, and even more importantly was that the young man standing beside the older one was someone knew well.

It had been over five years that Jon had last seen him, but his younger brother ' _or is it cousin,'_ would never be a stranger to Jon. First of all, Bran was standing, and looking just as amazed if not more than Jon. He had grown taller, and cut his hair it seemed. Bran who had always had his dark Tully red hair down to his shoulders in a hopeful attempt to imitate Jon, something which had not pleased Bran's Lady Mother.

"BRAN!" Jon shouted as he threw his arms around his younger brother.

"I missed you Jon," Brans sniffled as he clung just as hard to Jon

Reluctantly Jon parted from Bran and looked at the stranger. "What is going on?" Jon demanded.

"You died," the old man said abruptly, and Bran gasped, seeing the horrible wounds on Jon's chest for the first time. The wounds had already scarred over, leaving no less than eight nasty looking scars. "You were supposed to die," the old man continued, causing Bran to narrow his eyes angrily at him. "But the aftermath was not how I had…"

"You **what**?" Bran snarled. "Are you saying that you **deliberately** caused my brother's murder?" that certainly got Jon's eyes to narrow into slits as well and his hand reached for Longclaw, only to snarl at its missing presence.

"Your Brother," the old man started. "Should _never_ gone to the wall in the first place. I did what I **had** to do to free him."

"And how exactly, will killing me make me free?" Jon snarked.

"You are no longer bound to your vows," the old man said succinctly. "And as such free to fulfil your destiny."

"What do you mean destiny? What does all of this have to do with Rhaegar apparently being my father? What the HELL IS GOING ON!" Jon was shouting the last words, and Bran didn't seem to be more in the know than Jon, even Melisandre seemed to be somewhat confused.

The old man looked at Bran before laying his hands on Bran's shoulders. "That is enough for today Brandon Stark," and to Jon's amazement, both Bran and the old man disappeared quite literally from the empty air with the old man returning in the blink of an eye.

"You know the tale of Lightbringer?" he asked Jon and Melisandre.

"Lightbringer was the sword of Azor Ahain," Melisandre said. "Blessed by R'hllor as he drove the still hot blade through the heart of his wife."

Jon nodded in assent, though in the North R'hllor was never mentioned in the tale, but it was known that Azor Ahai had forged the blade by plunging it into the heart of his wife Nissa Nissa to use to defeat the Walkers and beat back the Long Night.

"Wrong," the old man said, and if Jon wasn't mistaken there was a hint of smugness in his tone.

Melisandre certainly seemed to take it as a personal blow as her face screwed up in indignity.

"Lightbringer was never a sword," the old man continued. "Lightbringer was, and always will be a person, a child to be specific."

"Years upon years ago, it was prophesised that the Prince-Who-Was-Promised would be bourn from the line of Aerys and Rhaella, this Prince would be the Song of Ice and Fire, destined to beat back the Long Night. For years Prince Rhaegar believed it to be first himself, and then his son Aegon, but he eventually realized the truth, that the child would have to be born from Ice and Fire both, that is why he sought out Lyanna Stark."

Jon's mouth felt dry like a desert, no matter how much he wanted to deny it he couldn't help but hang on to every word.

"He explained it to your mother, who agreed to his proposal, even knowing her fate," at this the old man seemed both sad and impressed.

"Her…her fate," Jon questioned.

"As with Nissa Nissa, giving birth to Lightbringer would doom her own life, no Maester, woods witch or shadowbinder could have saved your mother, giving creation to such power comes at a price, a price that was extolled even heavier on your father who paid with not only his own life, but the lives of his parents, wife and children."

"What power?" Jon asked, "I have no power, I don't even have a name."

The old man laughed. "No power? You may not have the greensight, but you are most definitely a Warg. When you were but a babe you rode out a plague for weeks that laid down nine and thirty grown men and women in Winterfell, coming out of it without so much as a mark while the others who survived were forever marked by the pox scars. You had the power to, even in death reach out to me. You drew on the power of the Red Priestess to save yourself."

Jon blinked while Melisandre looked at him curiously and even somewhat hungrily. "But, I've never consciously used that power that you speak of, I cannot enter Ghost to see through his eyes, or control his actions.

"Have you ever tried?" the old man asked, to which Jon shook his head. "You have a power that is beyond the ken of mere mortals, even your cousin Brandon whose greensight I've never seen nor heard the like of cannot compare, the blood of Old Valyria and Winter Kings combined is truly a marvel, and once you learn to control it, only then will you be prepared to stand against the Night's King and his armies, and even so it may not be enough."

Jon shook his head in denial. "But I am dead," he said. "I cannot do anything."

"You are not dead," the old man shot back. "You are merely in between, cast adrift on the eddies of time and space, but come, our time is short and there is something you must see before we both return to the real word."

Confused both Jon and Melisandre followed the old man towards the tower in the distance. A tower guarded by three men with white cloaks, facing seven others and as they got closer Jon was shocked to recognise the lead figure of the seven as his father or was it uncle? Ice was gripped in his hands.

"Father," Jon shouted, to no avail, none of the ten men there could hear him, and he doubted that they could be seen either, as neither Jon nor Melisandre could draw their gaze. Melisandre at the very least should have drawn a few appreciative glances.

"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned said to them.

"We were not there," Ser Gerold answered.

"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell.

"When King's Landing fell Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."

"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne and our false brother would burn in seven hells."

"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."

"Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne. "Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your Queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."

"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell.

"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."

"Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.

"We swore a vow," explained old Ser Gerold. Ned's companions moved up beside him, with swords in hand. They were seven against three.

"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.

"No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends.

Even though he knew the outcome, Jon still watched with anxiousness as the fight raged. Ser Arthur was indeed as good as the legends claimed, and Jon could see that he would be lucky if he could have kept up with him, though he felt a small amount of pride that his own skills exceeded what skills his father appeared to have, which confused Jon as he knew that Lord Eddard Stark was the one who had killed Ser Arthur, and as Howland Reed plunged a dagger into Ser Arthur's neck from behind Jon knew why.

To ease the suffering of the greatest Knight Westeros had seen in hundreds if not thousands of years his father picked up the pale blade and in a single stroke removed Ser Arthur's head from the shoulders.

"We must follow," the Old man said, shooing both Jon and Melisandre up the stairs, right behind Ned and Howland until they came to a room with a single bloodstained bed, a pair of maids stood to either side of the bed, a bed which held who the old man and Melisandre claimed to be his mother.

Lyanna Stark was indeed beautiful as most people had proclaimed. There had been those of course who claimed that her death, and the fact that a war had been fought over her had caused people to exaggerate her beauty, but Jon would like to think them wrong.

Even having gone through the rigours of childbirth there was an undeniable beauty in the young woman. While not a 'classical' beauty in the sense that Queen Cersei Lannister was or Margaery Tyrell was rumoured to be, Lyanna Stark had an undeniably wildness to her. Her features were the best that the North could produce, just like Winter could be beautiful it was also deadly, that was the sort of imagery produced by Lyanna Stark.

" _Listen to me Ned_ ," Lyanna spoke with a weakening voice, the pain almost overcoming her. She leant close to whisper to her brother, causing both Jon and Melisandre to do the same. _"His name is Aemon Targaryen, if Robert finds out he'll kill him, you know he will, you have to protect him…promise me Ned,"_ she leant back as her brother accepted a small child into his arms, a child that Jon could see was undeniably him, even so shortly after having been born the babe had the same dark eyes, seeming almost black or dark indigo in the right lighting. "Promise…me…" Lyanna muttered again, her eyes opening and closing at their own accord, the presence behind them, the sparkle that was usually present in anyone's eyes diminishing more every second.

" _I promise_ ," Ned sobbed and Jon felt his heart clench painfully.

Even as the life left her Lyanna, his _mother_ , opened her eyes one last time and Jon _knew_ , he just knew that she could see him, as her eyes seemed to drink in every detail on his face, and he felt himself give a trembling smile as he laid eyes on his mother for the first 'true' time. ' _Be strong my son'_ she whispered so low that no one could hear it, but Jon was good enough at reading her lips, and expression that he knew what she said.

"I will mother," Jon said as he tried in vain to dry the tears away from his eyes.

A pained sob brought Jon's attention back to the face of the man he had called 'father' all his life. Ned Stark's shoulders were shaking as he held his only nephew, orphaned before he could even walk.

"Ned," Howland Reed who Jon had forgotten completely spoke suddenly, causing both Jon and his uncle to startle at the slight Crannogman who was holding a hand at his bleeding side. "What will you do?"

His uncle held his silence for a moment before he laid a last kiss on his mother's brow. "I'll raise him at Winterfell," Ned said. "I will not let Lya's boy grow up without family…to the world he'll be Jon Snow, my son."

"He'll be a bastard," Howland said carefully. "Your wife will not like it."

Ned nodded sadly. "He'll have a hard life, but he will be alive, I'll not have him share the fate of his brother and sister," and Jon felt a sudden stab of pain in his heart.

He knew what had happened to Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, to think of them as siblings was strange, even more so was the fact that if his uncle had not done what he did then Jon _'or is it Aemon?'_ would have shared their fate. Would he have been strangled by a pillow? Or would the King have split his skull open on a wall like Clegane did to his elder brother?

He didn't even notice that he had fallen to his knees weeping until the hand of both Melisandre and the old man touched upon his shoulder. All the revelations of the last few hours, including his own death. Not even the death of Ygritte had been as painful, nor taken such a toll upon him, worst of all, Jon knew now that all of the pain was his own fault, it was the price for his birth, for which he could never repay.

"Now you know," the old man said. "You are the last male heir of our House. The world is yours to save, and the Iron Throne yours to take."

"Our House?" Jon questioned.

"Once, long ago, before I became the Three-Eyed-Raven, I was Brynden Bloodraven. Hand of the King, son of Aegon IV Targaryen. The future prosperity of our House rests now upon your shoulders."

"But, what about the Targaryen across the sea?" Jon asked as he searched for her name. "Daenerys," he finally said as he remembered the name.

"Perhaps she has a part to play, perhaps not. I cannot see the path that lies before her."

Bloodraven turned to Melisandre. "You are older than you appear, and powerful besides," he said. "You **must** teach him. Train him to use his powers, even if they do not correlate to the Red God, if he cannot master the power that resides in his blood, the world is doomed to eternal darkness."

Melisandre nodded. "He is R'hllor's chosen, I will not fail him."

"Good, now remember…" and before they could hear what Bloodraven had to say the world turned to flame and ash. Winds of scorching heat turned and twisted until both Melisandre and Jon _'Aemon,'_ he reminded himself tumbled out of a roaring fire amongst hundreds of men and women.

The army that surrounded them were dressed in impeccable, albeit strange armour. Their arms and legs were protected with intricate plate, richly decorated with strange imagery of fantastical beasts and glyphs. A few wore either single wholesuit plate cuirasses while others had armour of segmented plates, while the vast majority wore long protective shirts and mid-thigh length skirts of scale, what every armour had in common was the distinctive smoky ripples of valyrian steel, for that matter every man and woman alike had flowing manes of hair ranging from the almost pure white that he himself had acquired to a more golden white, and purple eyes of all nuances shone in the firelight as they stared at him and Melisandre. Standing closest were twelve men, armoured just like the others, but with elaborate robes on top of the armour, in hues of red, green, blue and purple, and right in front of Jon ' _Aemon'_ he told himself yet again, stood the man who could be no other than the leader of the army they had encountered.

Standing tall at well over six feet, he was clad from head to toe in silver plate that had been worked into a piece of art. Pictures of ancient battles to writings in High Valyrian and glowing gems, all of it had been engraved and incorporated into the armoured plates. Serrated edges, ran along his bracers, and his dragon shaped helmet held a flowing plume of bright yellow horse hair. Like his helmet's plumage, he wore a flowing cloak that just barely touched the ground, this in the same yellow colour. His shield was yellow, with a single swooping dragon dragon in black above a chevron in red.

Looking at the man's face Aemon barely held himself from gulping. There was intelligence in those eyes, but also cruelty, and if how Melisandre's eyes glowed slightly when she performed her magics was anything to go by, the man was also a skilled sorcerer. And as if things could not be worse, the man was flanked by the largest monstrosity Aemon had ever laid eyes on.

The dragon, for what else could it be was so large that its mouth alone was large enough to allow three men to stand side by side inside without hitting their heads at the roof of its mouth. The black curved teeth were the length of longswords while the dragon's yellow eyes were the size of dinner plates. Scales the size of Aemon's fists covered the entire dragon like a suit of armour in tones of deep red to blazing orange. If this dragon was anything close to what Balerion had been, he understood perfectly why Torrhen Stark had knelt before Aegon, and he was amazed at the balls ' _or stupidity'_ of the Lannisters and Gardeners who had actually engaged Aegon's forces.

" _Who are you, whom deem yourself worthy to appear before me?"_ the Dragonlord questioned, his voice was harsh and brooked no argument.

As quick as he dared, lest he lose his life to the maw of a dragon, Aemon knelt and lowered his head, and he breathed out a short sigh of relief as Melisandre copied his actions, though she prostrated herself even further by letting her forehead rest on the ground with both of her hands stretched out before her.

" _Let me handle this,"_ Melisandre whispered to him.

" _My Master is Aemon of the House Targaryen,"_ she spoke, almost causing Aemon to protest at her calling him Master, but he figured that Melisandre understood better than he.

The Dragonlord frowned for a moment. _"Ah yes, the ones who fled to the west a few years ago, to settle a small island. I remember how we all mocked them when they warned us all of what was to come,"_ he sighed deeply. _"How I wish now that we had heeded their warning."_

The Dragonlord grabbed Aemon's chin and lifted his head so that he could stare into his face. _"Where is your dragon? For that matter, why do you appear before me naked?"_

" _Great Lord,"_ Melisandre said, still prostate on the ground. _"My Lord Master's majestic beast was slain as near was he by a jealous freedman whom guested him in Myr, only instinctual magics kept my Master and I safe."_

The Dragonlord narrowed his eyes as he studied both Melisandre and Aemon, noting the numerous scars he had picked up over the years, including the recently healed ones on his chest. _"The same has happened everywhere recently. Lys was the first, and then, one after the other the Free Cities rose against us. What few of us survived the doom were murdered alongside our dragons."_ Turning his head towards Melisandre he continued. _"And who are you? Who presumes to speak in my presence?"_

Melisandre took it in stride though, and Aemon was once more impressed at how almost nothing, not even death by dragonfire could unnerve her. _"I am my Master's most loyal, I perform whatever My Master needs or desires, whether it be to act as his tongue, or be his instrument of death,"_ Melisandre answered, and Aemon had to give her points for audacity and ingenuity.

The Dragonlord turned to one of the robed men who stood closest. _"Is it possible that this young man's attempts at sorcery interfered with the ritual?"_

" _My Lord Emperor,"_ the robed man started. _"Anything is possible, perhaps he is indeed what we came for. We prayed to Urrax and cast our spells in the hope that the way forward would be made clear, and he showed up. It cannot be happenstance."_

Jon gulped, the only Emperor Aemon had ever heard of in the vaguest terms would be Aurion the Dragonlord who led his army into Valyria only to disappear. In the Smoking Sea.

" _Well, Aemon of House Targaryen?"_ the Emperor questioned. _"I am assembling a great host to retake our homeland, are you the one who can help me find the way?"_

Perhaps Aemon was. If there was one thing Valyria was full of it should be Valyrian steel, which would be needed against the White Walkers, and Valyria had said to be the centre for all magical teachings in the known world, but to enter it…a risky undertaking, but as it was he had little to lose.

" _I know the way Your Grace,"_ Aemon replied as he bowed his head again.

" _Then I shall offer you the honour of joining me. While never amongst the most influential of families, House Targaryen always enjoyed a position of wealth and prominence in Valyria, other than mine own daughter and what few relatives you have far to the west there are no more Dragonlords in the world. Swear yourself to me, and I shall reward you unlike no other. For your undying loyalty and aid in reclaiming our home I shall give you the chance to accept a new dragon for you to ride, and the chance to lead my armies into battle."_

Aemon swallowed. A dragon of his own. Ever since he and Robb were children he had dreamt of riding a dragon, and after the one incident when Robb broke his heart by saying that he could _never_ be the Lord of Winterfell due to his bastardry, Aemon had always proclaimed to be Aemon the Dragonknight or Daron the Young Dragon, and now, now he could barely hold his chuckles as he realized that he was related to both of his childhood heroes, descended from one of them even if the rumours about the Dragonknight and his sister Naerys were true.

" _H_ _e is the Dragonlord Aurion of House Belaerys,"_ Melisandre whispered, _just_ low enough that only Aemon could hear.

While it was certainly strange to suddenly find himself in a whole other place in the world, and hundreds of years before he had even been born, he knew that he must accept the situation for what it was, if he had to stop the Long Night before it could even begin he was fine with that

_"I, Aemon of the House Targaryen hereby swear myself to you His Grace, Aurion of House Belaerys, First of his name as Emperor of Valyria. I swear to uphold his command, the be his sword and shield against the darkness, from this night and all nights to come."_ Aemon barely managed to stay serious as he took the oath of the Night's Watch and changed it as he saw fit.

Aurion took out his knife and made a shallow cut in the palm of his hand before offering the blade to Aemon, who took the hint and repeated the gesture and clasped his new Lord's hand in his own. _"As your Lord and Emperor I hereby accept your oath of fealty, and do swear that if you stay loyal and true, I will reward you with greatness, and if you prove to be false I will wreak upon you righteous vengeance."_

Aemon got his first personal taste of magic as he felt his blood boil, and something take hold in him. ' _blood magic,'_ he realized with trepidation. Blood magic had been used as he swore his oath, and he knew that any attempt at raising his blade against his new Lord would be futile. His own blood and magic would see him dead before he could finish the attempt.

A pair of servants wandered over, ' _slaves'_ Aemon thought with disgust as he spotted the collars on their necks. Next to all the Valyrians around him they looked positively plain, with dark brown hair, skin and eyes. _"These slaves will show you to a tent where you and your…pet can rest for the night. We ride for Qohor on the morrow to gather more or our Valyrian kin."_

Aemon nodded. He remembered enough to know that Aurion had started his army from Qohorik colonials, increasing his small army of perhaps a thousand to several thousand. He also knew that Aurion had with him thirty thousand men to Valyria, so most likely they would have to visit each of the Free Cities in turn.

" _What should I do with the…slaves Your Grace?"_ Aemon asked Aurion.

The Emperor waved the question away with a gesture. _"They are slaves, do with them what you will."_

Aemon tried his best to hide his grimace. He knew that the east had practiced slavery since time immemorial, the Valyrians just as cruel as the ones who came before and after, but he had never thought he would be mixed up in it all. While the temptations to protest slavery or let them go he wasn't stupid. Sure he may have tried just a little bit too hard to emulate his uncle, managing to get himself killed for it, but he knew enough that if he was truly the one to beat the White Walkers, he would need every advantage he could get, and the civilization of Old Valyria had seen no equal in the annals of history, before or since, so he would bite his tongue and play along. He had done so amongst a hundred thousand Free Folk, all whom had wanted him dead and would have killed him at the slightest sign if his duplicity, he could do so again.

" _Show me to my tent,"_ he ordered the two slaves who bowed deeply, leading him with all haste through the small camp to a generously sized tent that had been erected with all haste, a single bed stood inside with blankets and pillows of luxurious silk. Upon a small ebony nightstand stood a candlestick of Valyrian steel, three candles burning merrily on it, other than that the tent was empty. Before he could dismiss the two slaves however they had grabbed his arms and made him pose as they started to take quick measurements of anything and everything, causing him to squirm in discomfort when their hands came close to, or accidentally touched his cock, the sight of a naked Melisandre who was given a similar treatment was not helping his restraint at all.

Eventually they finished and disappeared swiftly, backing away with surprising speed and grace as they bowed over and over. He turned to the bed where Melisandre was already laying down, the seductive pose she held her body in, resting on the side with her head supported in one hand while the other hand laid comfortably at ease on her thigh. "Come My Prince," she said as she gestured to the space beside her and Aemon could see that it would be a tight fit. The bed was just large enough for a pair of lovers to share in comfort. "Tonight, we rest, and tomorrow we begin a new game." Weighing his options, Aemon sighed before joining her on the bed, barely restraining himself from cursing as Melisandre draped herself over him as if they had been lovers for all their lives. While Melisandre dozed off swiftly it took Aemon some time, helped in no way by his manhood that was more than eager to engage the woman who rested atop of him. He had almost given in to her once in Castle Black, and if things continued the way they had done so far during this crazy day, he knew that he would give in to her charms soon enough."


	2. Chapter 2

**Scouts after disclaimer which has hidden itself in the crows nest, obviously not interested in making an appearance.**

**Camp of Aurion Belaerys, Emperor of Valyria. 9 moon turns ADV (After the Doom of Valyria).**

Aemon awoke with a start. His sleep had been marred by nightmares, and as soon as he felt the lingering pain in his chest from the scars he knew that it was no dream. His entire life had been one lie after another. His uncle Ned Stark whom had pretended to be his father all his life had never once considered telling him the truth, even his name 'Jon' was a lie.

Every time he had asked Lord Eddard Stark about his mother he had been met with excuses or stone cold rebuttals. Even the last time they saw each other, just before Jon was about to swear away his life for good in the Night's Watch his uncle lied to him. When Lord Stark said, 'Next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother,' Aemon had spotted the lie at once. The trembling of his face, the emotional placating tone, just the same as it always was at the earlier occasions he'd asked about his mother.

It bothered him, to know how little his uncle must have thought of him. That he was willing to let his only nephew by blood to be mistreated and mocked to the point where he felt worthless and without a place in the world. Not only that, but he, and Aemon's uncle Benjen, Sers Rodrik and Jory Cassel, Maester Luwin, every adult who had played some part in his upbringing had led him false. Reminding him every so often that the Watch treated men equally, bastard or otherwise. They certainly didn't mention the thieves, rapers and murderers who made up the majority, nor even the fact that almost a full quarter of the current members had been sent there for no other reason than following who they saw as the lawful King during Robert's Rebellion, Ser Alliser had certainly been one of them.

' _If only Ser Alliser knew who he stabbed to death,'_ Aemon thought with a chuckle. He would almost be willing to pardon the man if it meant that he could see the staunchest Targaryen supporter on the Wall realize that he had just plunged his dagger into the chest of the last male Targaryen.

"You are awake my Prince," Aemon turned his head and realized that Melisandre was already awake, and judging by the dusk outside the sun still hadn't risen.

"Bad dreams," he murmured. "You are up early yourself."

Melisandre shrugged slightly. "The Lord of Light sustains me, I need little sleep."

As good an answer as any, Aemon certainly had nothing to prove her wrong, and he had seen some of her power at first hand, having little need for sleep was hardly the most impressive thing. Studying the Red Priestess he noticed that she seemed far less self certain than she used to be. When he first met her she was as proud and certain as Prince Joffrey, her faith in the Lord of Light making her into a bastion of confidence and vitality, now...

She looked tired. Her scarlet eyes were dim, brows furrowed and she kept biting her lips in worry, albeit the fashion in which she did was certainly having an effect on his lower extremities, and he offered a silent prayer of thanks to the Old Gods that she appeared before him in clothes this time. She was dressed in a flowing strapless dress of red silk, with a sash of the same colour thrown over her right shoulder, held in place at her waist with a utilitarian leather belt.

"The slaves have finished your own garments my Prince," she said as she slowly walked over to the table and picked up a pair of trousers made from black leather that would be laced up on the sides.

"Ah right," Aemon said as he glanced about. "Would you…mind waiting outside?"

Melisandre smiled as he blushed. "I must be the one to dress my Prince," she said patiently. "We are now in a time shortly after your people were at the height of your power, and with the exception of your ancestors who live in Dragonstone at this point in time, you are one of three remaining Dragonlords left, and as such you must play the part."

Aemon sighed. He had of course had to do this before, during the year or so he spent along the Free Folk, but that didn't mean he had to like it, and yet, perhaps it was here he did belong. He had never felt as if he truly belonged, when he lived in Winterfell or on the Wall, always the feeling as if something was missing. The occasional dreams he had about his cousin Arya, whom he thought to be his sister at the time certainly hadn't helped him feel like a proper Northerner.

"Wait," Aemon said suddenly as he was struck by a realiziation. "There are more than just three Valyrians in the world," he said accusingly. "The Velaryons, Celtigars and Sunglass families are all of Valyrian heritage, Lys and Volantis is crawling with those who have the Old Blood."

"Very good my Prince," Melisandre said as she seated herself on the bed. "But while they are certainly of the Old Blood, they are not of 'The Blood'."

Aemon frowned, "What is the difference?"

"'The Blood' as it is or was known, are those who descended from the original forty families who tamed and rode Dragons. Every single dragonrider have come from one of those forty families, they were the nobility and ruling class of Valyria, they were the ones who ruled. So while the Velaryons are Valyrian, and quite rich at that as skilled merchants and seafarers they never had a voice in politics. They were sworn to the Targaryens, whom in return for fealty and tribute, repaid the Velaryons in the conclave where they had a voice as one of the forty."

"So the Targaryens championed the Velaryons causes in the conclave in return for…profit?" Aemon asked, somewhat disappointed.

Melisandre laughed. "You make it sound much worse than it was."

Aemon grumbled. "I don't like politics," politics did nothing more than get people killed.

"You make it sound as if the Velaryons got nothing for their trouble. Their men and ships were sworn to the Targaryens, but as they were sworn the Targaryens also had oaths of their own. Oaths that compelled them to represent the interests of their vassals in the conclave, and if needs must defend them with their dragons should war come their way."

Aemon nodded, that made much more sense, and also nearly identical as to how the House system in Westeros worked. "How do you know all this?"

A shadow stretched over Melisandre's features. "I grew up in this," she whispered. "I was nine when the doom came, by that time I was already sold into slavery in Volantis, so while I may not have grown up as nobility, I grew up when Valyria was at its zenith, everyone knew these things."

Aemon gaped. "But…that's…you must be hundreds of years old."

"Yes," Melisandre whispered. "For hundreds of years have I walked this earth, alone, with nothing but the flames and the Lord of Light to keep me sane. I've served as a bedslave and a maid alike, I was tortured in Asshai by the Shadow by my master who performed vile experiments of dark magicks, but the longer I stayed with him, the more I learnt as I snuck into his chambers to read his books and scrolls at night. I performed my spells and rituals on small animals, until I was ready to break free. The Lord of Light guided me, and I killed my master, then I left Asshai behind…changed, but more devoted than ever to R'hllor's ways."

Aemon's mind went a thousand paces a second as she revealed more of her past. "So, how have you managed to live so long as you have? You should be nothing more than a pile of bone by now."

Melisandre shuddered slightly and hugged herself as if trying to ward off a cold wind. "The magic of the shadowbinders is powerful, immensely so, but not without cost." "When I killed my master, I offered his soul, along with the souls of my unborn children, in return for life."

Aemon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The Shadowbinders from Asshai are not truly alive, nor are they dead, and their experiments often strip their subjects down into some form of half life as well. I sacrificed my master's soul, as well as my ability to birth living children, in return for eternal youth, or something close to it."

"You'll never have children?" Aemon asked.

"Never," Melisandre whispered. "The only children I can give birth to are mere shadow and vapour, a from of dark vengeance hungry for blood."

Aemon shuddered, he had heard the muttered rumours of how Melisandre had dealt with Renly Baratheon. "And do all red priests know these things?"

"No," Melisandre said. "The magics from Asshai are a blight on the world, and an affront to R'hllor, and if not for the fact that the Great Other still stares hungrily down at the world from the north, biding his time, we would have brought flame and death to Asshai a long time ago."

He was impressed, as much as he would like to remain unimpressed, there was something about the religious zeal that was worthy of admiration. Not that he would ever convert to her faith, but he could see that she still trusted her god deeply. "And yet," he started. "I hear that you have been using your shadow magics to serve Stannis."

Melisandre winced at the reminder. "I have, and if I can serve R'hllor's will by defeating the Great Other, I will gladly damn my soul for eternity in death."

"Truly?" Aemon asked with a raised eyebrow. "You'd accept being burned in a lake of fire for all eternity by using tools that your God have declared to be anathema?"

Melisandre's eyes seemed to be burning again as fervour and determinations wept trough her. "If you wish to win the war for the soul of man, the war for life itself you **must** be willing to sacrifice everything. **THAT** is the resolve you must have Aemon Targaryen, do you have it? Can you keep defying the great cold and darkness even as it strips away everything you have ever loved and held dear?"

" _I don't know,"_ he whispered. "I have already given and lost so much. In a single night I lost my life, I lost my father, mother brothers and sisters all over again. I learned that all my life has been one lie after another, I learnt that both my uncles didn't care for me enough to warn me about what the Watch truly was…if they had loved me, would they not have told me the truth? About the watch at least?"

Melisandre looked at him with both pity and understanding. "And how does that make you feel my Prince? How does it feel that everyone you ever looked up to let you live this lie?"

Aemon looked down at his hand that was resting over the covers. It was clenched together in a fist and shaking badly. " _ **It makes me furious**_ ," he hissed. "The only crime I ever did to Lord and Lady Stark was to be born."

Melisandre gently put her hand over his. "Then use that fury," she said. "The fury of the Dragonlords was legendary, besides their dragons it was their greatest strength."

"Explain!" Aemon barked.

"Magic my Prince," she said. "Magic is dangerous and powerful, some say it is a sword without a hilt, but it is more than that. Magic is a beast as ferocious as the great beasts of war that your ancestors rode, a force of unfathomable power that have to be broken in, dominated to your will, and emotions are the key, and love and fury are some of the most powerful emotions there are."

Aemon nodded, thankful at the little nugget of information. "Then perhaps we should start my education."

Melisandre smiled. "Good, but first I must dress you."

"Oh…right. Remind me again why it must be you who dress me."

"Your new Emperor, and everyone else here believe I am your slave. As your slave it is my task to dress and undress you, to wash your clothes, fetch your food, and pleasure you when you desire it, a role I will be happy to play if it lets you stay here in a position of power rather than as a slave."

Aemon stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment, it made sense to a certain point of view. "So as long as we play along, we should be safe?" he asked as he stood up, trying his best to not show any discomfort at his nudity.

"For a short time at least," Melisandre answered as she started to lace up his trousers.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Did you not find it strange that Aurion accepted you so eagerly?"

"No…" Aemon replied unsurely. "I wasn't exactly at my best last night."

"I thought as much," Melisandre said as she started to lace up his other leg. "You are nearly his social equal, in that you come from Dragonlord stock. In his eyes, you are already better than anyone else in the world, and he would not have to fear you either."

Aemon frowned. "What do you mean he wouldn't have to fear me?"

"Dragonlords were too proud, or too afraid to try and kill each other. They valued the 'dragonsblood' the flowed through the various families, far better to publicly shame a Dragonlord than to destroy the precious blood and seed he represented."

Aemon shook his head in amusement. "So instead of killing their rivals, they just…embarrassed them?" he asked while trying his best not to laugh.

"Indeed. Depending on how it was dealt with a Dragonlord might even choose voluntary exile for a few years before returning, though it had to be quite the scandal for a Dragonlord to go into a voluntary exile for so long. Most just holed up in their tower for a few weeks before returning to normal life."

Aemon shook his head at the strange ways of his ancestors, though he had to admit that public shaming and exile was far better than cutting down an entire family, root and stem along with all their servants and smallfolk, like Tywin Lannister had done to the Reynes and Tarbecks. "And what does this have to do with not fitting in?"

"At the moment you are without coin, weapons or a dragon, but it will be expected that you amass the first two relatively quickly, a dragon of your own I am less sure of. But with wealth comes other expectations."

"What expectations?" he asked.

"Slaves my Prince. As a member of one of the forty you will be expected to have slaves, to not have them would prove far more troubling than to have them."

"No," he growled. "I won't have slaves, it is against everything I stand for." It was against the Old Gods themselves to keep slaves.

"And if you don't take them we will be watched with suspicion, maybe even killed, not to mention that should you refuse someone else will take them, someone who might not be as kind a master as you."

Aemon closed his eyes in fury while Melisandre threw a short-sleeved light brown shirt over his head followed by a sleeveless silk tunic. Far lighter than any garment he had ever worn in his life, but perfect for the heat in the current climate. The edge of the collar was trimmed in gold while the main colour was soft cream, the only other decoration was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen that had been embroidered over his heart. "I do not like this, Melisandre," he admitted, as he held out his right arm so that she could fit a leather vambrace to it.

"You do not have to like it my Prince, but it must be done all the same," she replied as she started fitting a vambrace to his left arm. After the vambrace had been fastened she guided his legs into a pair of dark brown boots and secured a leather belt around his waist. "Our first lesson should require a sword my Prince," she said. "Mayhap we can find one in the camp."

Aemon and Melisandre walked out of the tent and he was almost immediately blind struck at the beauty he saw. He had seen enough auroras in the far north that the majesty of them had started to wear thin, but never had he seen a sky such as this. Shifting between light and dark pink, with thin white puffy clouds scattered. The sky seemed to sparkle ever so slightly as the brightest stars still shimmered slightly, while the occasional shooting star sped across the sky, though far closer than he had ever seen before.

"A remnant from the doom," Melisandre whispered to him. "The sky appears to be on fire sometimes, and bolts of flame will continue to mark the sky for years still."

"It's beautiful," he said as he continued to stare, that is until his ears caught the faint sounds of steel clashing against steel. "Come," he commanded as he started to walk towards the noise, dodging tents which contained still snoring occupants. The majority of men and women in the camp still slept, with the exception of the sentries and the slaves who were already hard at work. Eventually he came to the clearing where the fire he and Melisandre had stumbled from still burned brightly, and to his amazement the flames were burning in a clear purple tone, rather than orange. Not too far from the fire stood a small gathering of men and women in various forms of armour in a small circle, while two men stood in the middle, sparring swords in hand and doing their best to strike one another.

Aemon didn't have to spend more than a few seconds observing them before he knew that if they were the quality of the majority then he would be in for a long and hard road. "Stop!" his voice rang out clear and loudly, causing the combatants to halt while the spectators whirled around.

Walking briskly forward he entered the circle. "You," he said, pointing at the man to his left. "Your guard is too low, that is why you are constantly too late to block his strikes when he strikes high," turning to the man on his right who was smiling somewhat smuggle he tore into him. "You on the other hand are too uncoordinated. Your swings are wild and without guidance, and your grip is poor."

Both men grumbled angrily but refrained from commenting.

Aemon on the other hand looked around and found a sparring sword that he grabbed and held out, showing both of them the proper way to not only hold a sword but also how to stand.

"I don't like holding it like that," muttered the man who's grip he had corrected.

Aemon swung, and took a certain amount of satisfaction at striking the sword right out of the man's hand. "Learn to like it, or I'll break your hand next."

Looking at the gathered men and women around him he sighed in frustration. Near all of them seemed to be impressed by the relatively simple move he had just performed. "Anyone of you ever swung a sword before?" he asked as he planted the blade between his legs with his hand on the pommel.

Three people held up their hands. "At someone?" he continued, and all the hands disappeared, and he was somehow reminded of his first real meeting with Jaime Lannister.

"It's a strange thing, first time you cut a man. You realize we're nothing but sacks of meat, blood and some bone to keep it all standing. Now the first thing you need to know about swords, can anyone tell me?"

Silence met him before one of the younger ones spoke up, a girl who reminded him painfully of Arya from the grin on her face and the fact that she wore dirty shirts and breeches instead of dresses, that and the sword she had on her side. "Stick em with the pointy end," she grinned, causing a round of laughter.

Aemon laughed himself. "Aye that is the gist of it," he admitted with a laugh, remembering telling Arya the same thing. "But the most important thing to remember is that a sword is no toy. In the hand of a trained wielder it is a tool of death, and even in the hands of someone unskilled it can be dangerous, one wrong move and your lying on the ground with your blood pouring out."

Looking around he saw that he had the attention of everyone now. "We'll start with the basics first. How to hold a sword, how to stand, and how to swing it. You'll be out here every morning," he said almost growling as the majority of them groaned.

"For how long?" one of them asked.

"Until I say otherwise," he barked. "It is clear than none of you know how to hold a sword, and I don't know about the rest of the men and women in the camp either, so until I am satisfied you're mine, unless the Emperor says otherwise."

"And what makes you so qualified?" one of them snarked, foolishly doing so while Aemon could see him.

Aemon pointed his sword straight at him. "Come here and I'll show you."

The man paled slightly at being singled out, but did as asked and raised his sword while gripping his shield comfortingly. "Now, try to hit or disarm me," Aemon ordered him.

The man didn't need to be told twice as he surged forward and swung hard, only to overextend and trip as Aemon had taken a single step back. "Again," Aemon ordered as he waited patiently for the man to get to his feet.

The man swung twice more, Aemon easily avoiding both strikes by leaning to the right or to the left. The third strike he blocked and forced both of their blades low, before he suddenly grabbed his sword by the blade and hilt and rammed it up so that the pommel struck the man underneath the chin, sending him to the ground with a curse. "The blade isn't the only part of a sword."

After he was certain that he had their attention again he continued his lecture. "My father started me on sword lessons when I was a boy of five. Since then I have practiced every day for the last five and ten years. I've fought the barbarians of Westeros, led men into battle and even fought the living dead and their demonic masters in the far north beyond Westeros' great wall of ice, **that** is why I am qualified to teach you."

Suddenly everyone went down on one knee, and as soon as Aemon heard the voice behind him he knew why. "Do not forget that he is also one of The Blood," came the voice of Aurion.

"Your Grace," Aemon said as he also knelt before the last living Dragonlord beside the Targaryens of Dragonstone.

"You may rise Archon," Aurion said, causing Aemon to hurriedly search his memory for the title before he remembered. Archons were the elected leaders of the Valyrian conclave of Dragonlords and Aemon supposed that as the only other man in Aurion's forces with the potential to ride a dragon it made sense that he retain the title.

"You know your craft well," he said.

"I do Your Grace," Aemon replied. "You never know when you might find yourself in a situation without your dragon at your side."

Aurion nodded. "Just so, though I must confess that I am curious, I was not aware that your family had been in a war lately."

Aemon kept his face cool and emotionless, a feat which he had apparently perfected before his sixth nameday. "I was always one to crave adventure Your Grace. I served for four years on the Wall in Westeros, I fought the wildlings beyond the Wall, and I fought in defence of the Wall when a wilding army attacked it."

Aurion smiled slightly. "Most impressive, tell me, what sort of men are these that live in Westeros?"

A test Aemon knew. "They are men Your Grace. Petty Kings fight over borders, men fight over wine gold and women. Worshippers of the empty idols of the seven fight against the men who worship the trees, a primitive folk compared to the might of Valyria."

"As I thought," Aurion said with a firm nod. "But they do know how to fight at least, if your own skills are a result of their teachings."

Aemon shrugged slightly. "I've picked up a trick or three during my time there."

"Very well. I must agree with you, you should continue this every day."

"I will do as you command Your Grace," Aemon said as he bowed.

"Good, build me an army worthy of Valyria."

Aemon looked at one of the Emperor's advisors who was wearing flowing robes of purple. "If I might make one request Your Grace?"

Aurion nodded and gestured for Aemon to speak.

"My family was never the most accomplished of sorcerers, and what little knowledge we had was for the most part left in Valyria when we left. Might I request that your sorcerers can continue my burgeoning education in the arts of sorcery?"

Aurion laughed. "You lack not for ambition Archon," he said while turning towards the sorcerer at his side. "What say you Baelarr? Can he be taught?"

The man called Baelarr studied Aemon deeply, his indigo eyes shining ever so slightly as he stared at Aemon and Aemon barely kept himself still as he felt…something caress him, causing goosebumps to appear on his skin.

"I think so Your Grace, a small test first perhaps," he told Aurion who nodded. Turning his gaze back at Aemon he smiled encouragingly. "Perhaps a simple spell to summon a small flame in the palm of your hand, do you think you can do that?"

Aemon smiled. He could do **more** than that, as Melisandre had taught him one of the spells she knew just before they came across the impromptu sparring session, and while he hadn't tested it out yet, he felt certain that he could do it. "I require a sword," Aemon said as a reply, causing the sorcerer to furrow his eyebrows in confusion, while Aurion looked at him sharply, before nodding to one of his personal guards who swiftly drew a longsword of Valyrian steel.

Aemon held the blade lightly, testing its weight and balance as well as taking a few practice swings. It was certainly light, lighter and also shorter than Longclaw which Aemon believed lost to him forever, but certainly a fine example of smith work. Taking a knee he laid the blade in the palm of his left hand and made a slight incision, the blade so sharp that he didn't even feel the pain as it drew blood. Doing as Melisandre had suggested to him he imagined a roaring flame, consuming everything, his thoughts, his troubles, anything and everything and then he felt it.

The power of magic filled him. A roaring firestorm, a cataclysmic thunderstorm with hurricane winds buffeting him, while monstrous seas tried to drown him, all these sensations hit him simultaneously, and as the red priestess had thought him he focused on his fury. With the wellspring of pain, betrayal and suffering he had experienced in his life it was easy and he 'felt' himself grab the power that threatened to overcome him by the scruff of its neck as if it was a wild beast to dominate.

With the magic firmly under his control he stood up while simultaneously dragging his hand alongside the flat of the blade which burst into red hot flames and as he looked down he could see that the cut he had made had already healed over, the only sign of it were a few specks of dried blood in his palm.

"By Syrax," the sorcerer gasped as Aemon held the still burning blade. "I'll say that we are going to enjoy teaching you Archon," he said breathlessly.

Aurion too looked impressed. "You will teach me this," he told Aemon simply.

"Of course Your Grace," Aemon replied. "It will be my honour."

"Good, now continue your lesson, I wish to…observe for now."

Aemon continued the lesson for another hour and a half, the majority of the time spent on the basics, teaching them for the most part how to hold a sword, shield or spear. How to stand and how to handle basic care, since the majority of the soldiers weren't armed with Valyrian steel, but good steel nonetheless, every day he would spend one to two hours teaching them, aided by the few personal guards of Aurion who thankfully had at least some amount of military training. He learned quite a lot during the next week actually. The majority of the four hundred and thirty-seven men and women were from Aurion's personal household. They had been traveling towards Qohor where Aurion had a large estate in order to celebrate the birth of his son.

Then the doom had happened. The majority of Aurion's family and holdings were in Valyria, Aurion himself as a third son had never expected to be the head of his family. The tragedy had expanded when his sister wife had flown her dragon back in order to try and save their children, only to perish in a blast of flame, he had thought himself cursed when his son had died later that very day from a mystery illness that had laid low over half of Aurion's household, leaving him with less than five hundred men and women, a dead son, a living daughter, his dragon and a pair of dragon eggs.

Fortunately his dragon was large, **very** large, so large in fact that he and his dragon alone would be enough to discourage anyone from attacking them. And when word reached him of how the few remaining Dragonlords had been butchered in their sleep along with their dragons he had known enough to be careful. Fellow Valyrians wouldn't betray him, member of the Forty were worshipped as representatives of the Gods themselves, having a small amount of their divine essence in the form of the 'Dragonblood' flowing through their veins.

Aemon had at first been treated with some small amount of suspicion but was quickly accepted by the men and women who made up Aurion's small army. The vast majority of them had been something simple as merchants, cooks, carpenters, fishers or sheepherders, well they had been the ones in charge of the slaves who did the dirty work, though most of them had worked side by side with the slaves to a point at least. There was no way that a Valyrian shepherd would be cutting the wool or cleaning up the droppings, but he or should would still participate watching the flock during the night or day, and a crewmember of a ship would still help carrying sacks or crates of produce off a ship. It was strange to Aemon who had at first thought that slaves did literally everything in Valyria, but he was disabused of that notion quickly enough, there were _far_ too many Valyrians to support all of them just sitting on their arse, though the number of men and women who spent years or decades pursuing the arts was impressive, it also seemed to be almost something of a pilgrimage for a freedman, which was the average Valyrian to travel the world to seek his or her fortune for a few years, very few in comparison to the rest of the world decided to try their hand at soldiering.

What use did Valyria have for armies? At the height of their power, shortly before the doom there were according to Aurion no less than eight hundred Dragonlords with mounts large enough to be ridden for the purpose of war. House Targaryen itself had five dragons when they left Valyria, and had more than enough dragon eggs to hat ten more for sure. The very few men and women who participated actively in a 'soldiers' life, were usually personal guards, mostly there for show as a show of status, though they did have some purpose outside of Valyria if a Dragonlord ever decided to visit one of the colonies or other cities.

"I imagine there are few of us left now," Aurion said. It was nine days since Aemon and Melisandre had appeared and he had been permitted to dine with Aurion for the first time, a relatively simple meal of spiced horsemeat, rice and various dried fruits, and they were currently discussion the current state of the Valyrian people. "Every single one of the colonies have rebelled, even Volantis have rejected the rule of the Dragonlords and instead proclaimed to be the heir of Valyria."

Aemon nodded thoughtfully, he had learned quite a lot about this subject from Maester Luwin who had always seemed to share Aemon's fascination with Valyria and its people. "With all luck we will find more of our people," he said. "We've always been in the minority in all of these so called 'Free-Cities', so with all of the Dragonlords seemingly dead, or the majority of them I cannot say I am surprised that they all decided to rebel."

"Don't I know it," Aurion sighed. "Though Volantis at least wasn't a surprise. They've been arrogant for almost a century already, up jumped merchants with gold and greed instead of wits."

"They'll come to regret it," Aemon said. "We can start in Qohor, and from there we head west and then south. Stop at each one of the cities and get as many of our people to rally to your banner, until we've gathered enough to rebuild Valyria anew."

Aurion looked thoughtful. "Your idea has merit. I was going to go to Qohor and raise a host there and reclaim Valyria first before doing anything else."

Aemon didn't know if Aurion actually did that or not, all he knew was that Aurion had led a great host into Valyria. "I think caution would be best for now Your Grace. There are several disturbing rumours about Valyria, so a larger host wouldn't hurt, nor would waiting."

"Waiting?" he questioned.

"Yes, even now, almost a year later, Valyria is shrouded from view in great clouds of steam and ash, the heat can be felt across the newly created smoking sea all the way to Oros. Letting the calamity take a bit longer to settle wouldn't be a bad idea."

"No it wouldn't," Aurion admitted. "If we go west and then south we will come to the narrow sea soon enough," Aurion said.

"Yes…" Aemon half questioned.

"We need more dragons, while my daughter has but an egg it has yet to hatch."

"What are you getting at Your Grace?" Aemon asked.

"When we arrive in Pentos we can spend time there to rest and recuperate, during that time I wish for you to travel back to your kin on Dragonstone, see if you cannot convince your family and their vassals to provide aid for our endeavour. Men, ships, produce, all will be welcome, perhaps even a new dragon for you."

' _Fuck,'_ was Aemon's first thought. He wasn't particularly keen to show up on Dragonstone and try to convince his ancestors that he was a Targaryen, let alone ask for something as big and important as men, ships or a dragon, but at the same time what choice did he have? If he refused Aurion would no doubt be displeased and suspicious, he would just simply have to accept the command and hope his ancestors didn't kill him when he showed up. "It will be good to see home again," Aemon said as he inclined his head slightly

"Father, Archon," Came a new voice from behind Aemon, a voice he hadn't heard since that first morning when he was training the new 'recruits'. Apparently the young woman/girl who had reminded him so much of his former sister Arya, was actually Aurion's daughter.

"Daughter," Aurion said imperiously. "Archon," he said as he turned to Aemon. "My Daughter Rhaena Belaerys, Princess of Valyria," turning to his daughter he gave a rare smile. "Daughter, this is Aemon of House Targaryen, Archon and Lord General of Valyria," Aemon felt his eyes widen at that last sudden title.

"Your Grace," he gasped. "You honour me."

"Your blood and skill alike is superior to any of the others we have here amongst us. Yu may be young, but you have the right blood and name and a mind for battle, Valyria could do little better currently for a General."

"Thank you Your Grace," Aemon said before standing up so that he could give a proper bow to the Princess. "Might I add that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Princess."

The Princess was dressed much in the same fashion as her father and Aemon were. Her garments were of thin almost see through silk in creams, light blue or soft pink, and Aemon cursed his eyes as they seemed to automatically drift towards the young woman's bosom. Her dress was distracting enough, held up by straps over her shoulder so thin that they seemed to be non-existent. Her back was left bare while the plunging neckline was wide and deep, just barely hiding her nipples though with how sheer the material was he could still see them just barely. Over her shoulders she carried a richly embroidered shawl of cream and gold while her flowing silvery gold hair had a hair clamp the size of a hen's egg studded with sapphires. She was beautiful, especially for a girl her age, a far cry from the dirty eager little warrior he had kept an eye on during the daily practice sessions, she was certainly one of the more eager ones, the fact that she reminded him so of Arya was not helping at all. Now though the only thing the allowed him to connect the eager little warrior to the inhumanly beautiful princess before him was the humorous glint in her lilac eyes and the sweet voice she carried.

"The pleasure is mine Archon," she replied as she sat down next to her father who was looking quite pleased as he looked at them both.

"I expected you here some time ago daughter," he said sternly. "It is unseemly to be late when I have invited a guest to dine with us."

Princess Rhaena had the good grace to blush slightly in shame at the rebuke. "I wanted to appear properly dressed for once," she said as she shot Aemon a quick look.

Aurion arched an eyebrow, causing Aemon to laugh.

"Your Grace surely knows that the Princess has partaken in my lessons."

Aurion nodded, "I do, and how goes her progress?"

"She is progressing well, she has promise with a shortsword for the moment, though her shieldwork is still somewhat sloppy," he said honestly.

"It is heavy," she grumbled, causing both Aemon and her father to laugh.

"It is supposed to be heavy daughter, were it not, it would not defend you and you'd have your head bashed in."

Aemon smiled reassuringly. "You show promise Princess, and as long as you continue the exercises I teach then I have no doubt that you will become a skilled warrior soon enough."

Rhaena smiled at that. Aemon had actually been surprised to learn that his ancestor Aegon's wife Visenya being a skilled warrior as well as a sorceress was actually the norm rather than a rare occurrence. Valyrian society was very liberal when it came to gender roles, nobility in particular eagerly encouraged sons and daughters alike to master at the very least one weapon, somewhat understandable he supposed as they could all be called into war service if they had a dragon large enough to be flown into battle, and when the nobility did it then so did the commoners try to emulate them as best as they could. The only thing he had discovered so far that had clearly defined roles for gender was the marriage ceremonies of the Valyrians, ceremonies that would surely cause a septon or septa to faint in shock, even the Dornish would probably be shocked.

"I intend for her to wed soon," Aurion said suddenly, shocking Aemon somewhat. It seemed to be a _bit_ too soon, how old was she even? Aurion must have seen the look on his face as he laughed. "She is already three and ten, and started her moonblood a year past," he continued, ignoring how his daughter went red at the mention of that.

"Begging your pardon Your Grace," Aemon said uncomfortably. "But isn't it a bit early for that? You would have to find a proper husband for her, and she is young yet to bear children."

Aurion narrowed his eyes slightly. "My physicians have assured me that she is healthy, and it is quite common to wed at her age as you well know," _actually_ Aemon didn't know. Sure it happened often enough in Westeros that a girl was wed shortly after she bled for the first time, but most of the time one waited until the girl turned five or six and ten, three and ten was seen as too early for most Lords. "Besides," Aurion continued, not having seen Aemon moment of deep thought. "I am the _last_ of my line, my daughter the only progeny left to me. Her brother who should had taken her to wife burned along with the rest of our kin in Valyria."

Aemon lowered his head slightly. "My apologies Your Grace."

"No need," Aurion said. "You are all that I need."

"Your Grace?" Aemon questioned, surely he couldn't mean?

"You are young enough, and you are of The Blood same as my daughter and I. Once we have retaken Qohor you will wed my daughter."

Aemon felt his heart miss a beat. "Your Grace," he protested, completely lost for words.

"I will _not_ have my line die out with my daughter," he snarled. "My daughter is young and healthy, she will bare you strong sons and daughters alike, I will require a son and daughter from you to carry my own name."

Aemon certainly couldn't refuse either, no matter how much he wanted to. He was seven years older than her. It would have been easier if she looked like a girl rather than a woman. She was young yes, and it showed, but at the same time her hips had already started to develop a swell, and her bosom while not large was more than big enough to turn his head and send his blood boiling, the fact that she reminded him so of Arya was the final nail in the coffin as some men said.

"You honour me Your Grace," Aemon said, what else could he say? Especially when Rhaena was looking at him like that, she certainly liked what she saw, and they had conversed enough during the past week to develop a liking to each other.

"I trust you are pleased daughter?" Aurion asked Rhaena who smiled.

"Very pleased father," she said. "I feared you would have me marry one of the commoners, pretty to look at and charming in their own way, much like dogs or horses, but not real men."

Once again Aemon was reminded of the fact that while the Valyrians had certainly been the most advanced society in history, and depending on your birth, the most free and liberal as well, there was a certain arrogance prevalent in them, arrogance that had for the most part been well earned. Didn't mean he had to like it though, as it was attitudes like that, which gave Aemon painful flashbacks to the Lannisters, with the exception of Tyrion who had been more of the 'sarcastic, snarky arrogance' of someone who knew that the world was shit and didn't give a fuck.

At hearing his daughter mention marriage to a commoner Aurion actually spat on the ground. "I'd sooner wed you to a horse than let a commoner wed mine only daughter. You are of The Blood of the Forty, nice of your ancestors have served as Archons in the conclave, only the blood and seed of a fellow Dragonlord will do," he told her, and Aemon wisely decided to _never_ mention to Aurion that he was only half Targaryen, and from a line of Targaryens who had more than once wed into so called 'lesser' blood.

One of Aurion's sorcerers entered the tent suddenly. "My pardons Your Grace," he said. "It is time for the Archon's studies."

"Of course of course," Aurion said, waving him off.

"I thank you for the meal Your Grace," Aemon said as he stood up. Turning to Rhaena he gingerly clasped her hand and raised it to his lips to lay a soft kiss on it. "Again, it was a pleasure to finally be proper introduced my Princess."

"The pleasure was mine Archon," she replied with a smile and a slight bow of her head.

Giving her hand a last gentle squeeze Aemon followed the sorcerer out of the tent toward the edge of the camp where they usually practiced.

He had, according to his tutors come quite far for such a short amount of time. Already he could summon living flames in his hands, he could purify any drink or food for foreign substances. He could lock and unlock simple locks and had started ever so slightly on increasing his strength, though that last one was something that would take a long time to master properly, and even then, there were limits on how much a man could increase his strength.

As for his tutoring with Melisandre he had continued there as well. The trick of lighting a sword was but the first. Regardless of the fact that he did not believe in R'hllor he was capable of performing some of the same feats. He had less need for sleep than most and rarely grew fatigued. He could see into the fires to receive faint images and visions, though not to the clarity that he could interpret anything, more like hot flashes of images, gone as quickly as they appeared, the he could use the flames to communicate with another doing the same. That particular skill was what made the Red Faith of R'hllor so widespread and powerful apparently, as the High Priest in the Red Temple in Volantis could keep in contact with every single devotee across the world who had learned the art, and art which Melisandre had admitted to employing, though she angrily suspected that High Priest Benerro may have steered her false, resulting in the series of disasters and bad decisions that Stannis had made. At least Stannis had not listened to her when she broached the subject of burning Shireen as Benerro had suggested her to coax him into performing. Instead he had banished her from his camp and sent Shireen, his wife Selyse and fifty mounted Knights north to Eastwatch.

As for the skills in his northern blood he had little guidance, left to simply follow his instincts and will, though he had managed to successfully warg into a bird, he had no permanent bond or control over the little creature which had flown away in panic once he let go of its consciousness. As he sat down cross legged across from Baelarr he suddenly realized that he would be wed soon, and what's more it would be a Valyrian wedding ceremony. _'Oh fuck,'_ he thought once he realized that fact. _'I hope none of my family is watching me from the afterlife,'_

**And so ends chapter two. As I've mentioned this is a bit of a mix between books and show. I am going by show 'timeline' so Jon/Aemon is 20 at the end of S5/book 5 instead of 17. There are some other changes as well.**

**The Dornish plot which was bad enough in the books is non existent here, so no Ellaria and the Sand Snakes betraying everything Oberyn stands for by killing Doran and Trystane, for that matter both Arienne and Quentin are also alive here.**

**Victarion Greyjoy has accepted his brother Euron as King and as such sailed to Mereen which is under siege by Volantis and numerous sellsword companies. Yara is actually Asha, but Asha and Theon have participated in the Kingsmoot, and with Asha's loss taken a lot of the best ships and made a runner for it.**

**I was naturally furious at how D &D completely ruined everything Stannis stood for by the burning of Shireen, especially after the strong father/daughter moment they had the episode before, so here Stannis sent Shireen, Selyse and bodyguards up to Eastwatch and then towards Castle Black to safety while he marches on Winterfell.**

**Barristan is still alive and currently holding Mereen against the armies besieging it.**

**I still haven't decided whether or not to include Faegon, JonCon and the Golden Company and their invasion of the Stormlands into this, Varys and Tyrion at the very least are both in Mereen, ostensibly to advise Dany who is currently cursing her lazy dragon as she is forced to walk as a slave in a dothraki khalasar.**

**The GNC is somewhat operative, in the fact that the majority of the Northern Lords are plotting against the Boltons, who are actually backed up by the Freys and yes Sansa was married to little Ramsay and escaped the same way she did at the end of S5, and the Blackfish is still pissing of Walder Frey and his brood by reclining in his favourite chair on Riverrun's battlements where he does a lot of fishing, as well as taking the odd potshot at the Frey army with his longbow in order to keep them on their toes.**

**No Jeyne Westerling in this one, so Robb actually did marry Talisa Maegyr, which I have no doubt that some of you my excellent readers can figure out the significance of.**

**Lastly, feel free to make a guess as to what a 'Valyrian' marriage ceremony is like (this particular ceremony is reserved for the forty families, and also explains as to why they could marry brother to sister for literally thousands of years and still remain not only inhumanly beautiful, but also smart and intelligent enough to master magic and technology not seen before or since).**

**PS: I changed my username.**

**Read and review**

**Daemon Belaerys.**

 

 

Following here is the crest of House Belaerys (I made it myself) followed by an image of Aemon (Jon's) new look and how Rhaena will look.

 


	3. Chapter 3

** Disclaimer: screams repeated denials of any sort of ownership to established works or characters that might be recognized as it is lead towards the guillotine. **

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** 10th moon ADV, somewhere south of Qohor. **

“PUSH! DON’T LET THEM BREAK THROUGH!” Aemon shouted as he grit his teeth and pushed as hard as he could with his shield against the much larger man facing him. For weeks they had made their way up alongside the eastern bank of the river Qhoyne, Aurion, himself and Aurion’s advisers agreeing that it was safer to risk facing the Tallmen from Sarnor than the hardened soldiers of Norvos. He guessed most of the men regretted that decision now. Things had started fairly well, every day their small army/caravan grew as Valyrians and other folk alike sought refuge with the Dragon Emperor, the news they brought however were not so welcome.

The forest of Qohor which itself was home to thousands of woodsmen who provided Qohor and the rest of the now shattered Freehold with immense amounts of lumber, mineral ore and amber was being overrun by the rising kingdom of Sarnor. Once a scattered barbaric people the hardy men of Sarnor had started to form the basics of a new civilization in the waning days of the Freehold by building cities, establishing trade and learning the secrets of forging steel and establishing trained armies of heavy horse, infantry and decent logistical capabilities, and now they had turned their eyes west towards the former Valyrian colonies which had started to call themselves the ‘Free-Cities’.

It was sheer luck alone which let them discover the approaching warbands at first. Aurion had been atop his dragon Aejaxx to scout ahead, mayhap discover more of their kin who were fleeing from the numerous conflicts in the massive forests or even from Qohor itself which was in full rebellion. It was while in the air that he had spotted the first of several warbands who were encroaching close to his forces, and though he scattered them by unleashing the full might of a full grown dragon he could hardly scatter every warband that came their way.

A decision had been made, in that Aemon would take charge on the ground and push onwards into the heart of the horde before they could properly converge after exiting the forest, creating a safe path behind them where the fleeing refugees could cross the river along with those who were too old or too young to fight. Aurion would be buying them time from atop his dragon.

So far it had worked like a dream. The force which had grown by the influx of refugees stood at six hundred men and women strong. Jon had used the terrain to his advantage as best he could. To their right was a large collection of hills, cliffs and shattered stones of all sizes, too dangerous for cavalry to traverse, and to their left was a largely open plain though he could spot the trees of the forest in the distance. Directly to their front, less than two hundred paces away was the treeline, a treeline which continually poured out men and the occasional horse towards them.

As he decapitated his opponent he thanked his lucky stars that he had decided to not only push their men and women as harsh as he had the last mon, but also for the first time he appreciated Valyrian arrogance. The men and women he fought with had spent all their lives in a position of superiority, they believed down to their very bones that they _were_ the superior being. To flee, or fear the large brutes attacking them was not only cowardly, it was to admit that they were weaker, so despite the Sarnorians being bigger and generally stronger the small Valyrian force fought back with tooth, nail, steel and sorcery.

Had it not been for Valyrian steel they would have been overcome, he knew that. The Sarnorian’s armour was simply not capable of withstanding the ensorcelled blades facing them. Their shirts of scaled mail deftly withstood barrage of barrage of arrows and crossbow quarrels alike, shields that should have been reduced to splinters days ago still shone brightly as they were held aloft by tired arms. Aemon was impressed at how well things were going. For three days they had held off wave after wave of Sarnorians, they had killed their own number thrice over, though he supposed that if the Sarnorians had attacked with more coherency instead of the scattered warbands they had appeared in, Aemon and his forces would all rest in the ground by now.

With the brief lull in the fighting he got after his latest kill he cast a quick look over the battlefield. They were facing the largest warband yet, almost twice their own number, and the left flank was wavering, the appearance of heavy horse making up the difference that their weapons could not.

“COMMIT THE RESERVE TO THE LEFT FLANK!” he shouted to a young lad, two and ten years old maybe that acted as a sort of messenger/steward/scribe to Aemon.

With a nod the shaken boy ran towards their makeshift camp where a few men rested. Their positioning allowed him to keep about two hundred men in reserve, resting, eating and sleeping while the remainder of the force was committed. They had to do this as there were always another warband joining, eager to claim both slaves and valyrian steel.

“BRACE!” he shouted as their foes prepared for a renewed charge having been driven back mere moments before.

The sound of shields interlocking sounded as Aemon and his forces tightened their ranks, feet spread apart, shields in front and shoulders locked tight. He grunted as their enemies smacked into their line but yet again they didn’t break formation, instead lashing out with cold steel against the increasingly furious enemy.

A high piercing scream echoed around them and Aemon felt his tired body gain new strength as Aurion atop Aejaxx appeared over the trees and started to bathe the Sarnorians in dragonflame, the numerous piles of smoke and flame wafting over the forest in any direction they could see showed that Aurion had not been lazy while his men fought and died.

With his newfound energy Aemon made a shallow cut in his hand and once more wrestled the infinite chaotic energy that any magician could tap into under his control. Guiding it through words his voice clapped like thunder. **“FAAS RU MAAR,”** the words were from a time before ancient Valyria even, and there were some who questioned if it might not be the tongue of dragons, though he doubted it. He had yet to meet any beast that could speak, even the times he had warged into Ghost had been more about feelings, instinctual sensibilities and truths rather than true intelligence or though.

Still, despite the mysteries behind the language of the spells Valyrians preferred, their effectiveness were unquestioned. Even as the words he spoke sounded like thunder following lightning, the spell took its hold. Aemon nearly collapsed as he felt the toll the spell exacted from him. Magic was about force and sacrifice, and this one took both. Using his fury and his blood to directly attack the hearts and minds of his foes, the closer they were to despair the stronger it was, and nothing could sap their spirit more than the sudden appearance of Aurion on Aejaxx. And so it was that near every one of their enemies within three or four hundred yards threw away their weapons or just turned tail and fled screaming into the woods, what little fight left in them after Aurion showed up was broken entirely at the ancient spell of despair that Aemon had summoned. Those closes to Aemon had just curled up and started weeping.

Gritting his teeth against the pain and fatigue he could feel Aemon once again as he had done several times during the last days summoned forth a wellspring of burning fire on his sword. As soon as he caught a new breath he raised the burning blade over his head and saluted Aurion who landed before them.

“I told you to me me soldiers Aemon. Show me just how deadly they are. Disperse the Sarnorians. **Break them!** ”

Aemon spat out a mouthful of blood, a result of the powerful spell he had wrought to break the spirits of most of their enemies who were already fleeing or barely holding their ground.

“FOR VALYRIA!” he shouted, nearly five hundred voices joining him as the small force ran towards the tired invaders.

He was tired. His body covered in bruises and cuts that valyrian mail had failed to protect against. His arm felt like lead after days of near continuous swinging, stabbing and hacking. His legs felt like jelly and none of this mattered at all. He was as drunk on battle and victory as all his compatriots. A giant of a man, bigger even than the Hound was attempting to rally the Sarnorians against the Valyrian counter charge, a huge axe held aloft as he shouted encouragements at his fellow countrymen. Aemon laid him open from groin to neck in one fell blow and spun around and hacked low, sending two men screaming to the ground as the blade in his hand sliced through their legs right above the knees, another slash opened their throats.

A spear came at him and he swerved to the right, trapping the shaft of the spear between his chest and left arm. A quick stab later and his attacker collapsed with a new hole to breathe through in his face. Without breaking stride Aemon flipped the spear and threw it overhead, the six foot long pole of wood and steel burying itself into the back of a fleeing man.

A trio of braves advanced against him, their heavy oak tower shields held protectively in front of them while their spears pointed towards him, ready to try and end his life with a single thrust. He ducked under one strike while sweeping his sword up against another, severing the wooden shaft. The last one nearly hit home, only to be diverted at the last minute by his round shield. As it was he was already bleeding enough to summon the power in his blood for a simple though dangerous attack. “ **YOL** ” he shouted and barely kept from grimacing at the pain of breathing literal fire out from his mouth.

It was a short attack, lasting perhaps no more than a second, but the burst of magical flame, added to the fire which was burning on his sword was more than enough to light the three on fire. With all three of them aflame it was easy to circle around and remove all three heads in one slice.

As soon as their bodies hit the blood stained ground his eyes were already searching for a new target though he could find none. The battlefield was eerily silent, only a few still screaming out in their strange tongue, most already dead as the tired Valyrians had cut them down where they tried to flee, what few remained alive were being dealt with as a small force of ten men or so walked around the battlefield, ending the suffering of anyone still alive with a well-placed spear or sword thrust.

“We’ve won,” Aruion said as he walked up beside Aemon, he himself had partaken in battle it seemed as both he and his dragon were covered in blood, ash and dust.

“Aye,” Aemon nodded. “We should away from this place Your Grace,” I doubt we can hold them off again.”

Aurion was thoughtful and morose as he stared across the field that was littered with dead, Valyrian and Sarnorian alike. “What a waste,” he sighed.

“Can you blame them Your Grace?” Aemon asked. “For thousands of years the Freehold ruled supreme. It stands to reason then that whatever King or chieftain leading these men would try to make a name for themselves by beating us in battle.”

“Aye you have the right of it,” Aurion agreed. “It is still distasteful to see so many lives thrown away in a battle that cannot be won.”

“There is no more saddening a thing than a battle won, except for a battle lost,” Aemon said.

“Who told you this?” Aurion asked curiously.

“My. . .father,” Aemon said after a pause. Regardless of how he felt about the lie Eddard Stark had made him live all his life, he still regarded the man as his father. He took him in when he didn’t have to, and had provided Aemon with much of the training that had saved his life on numerous occasions the past days alone.

“A wise man,” Aurion said. Looking across the battlefield once more he eventually shook his head. “What are our losses?” he asked tiredly, and Aemon realized that Aurion was probably just as tired if not more than their ground forces. While Aemon and the rest of their ground forces had at least had the chance to catch a few hours of sleep, Aurion had been in the saddle continuously for the past three days.

“Out of the original six hundred there were five hundred and nine on my last count, though we may have lost more during their last charge.”

Aurion sighed again, and Aemon could spot the man’s age for the first time, nearing fifty the man had always seemed so strong and vigorous, now though he could see the old man that lurked behind the still mostly smooth face. Prepare our dead for burning, strip the others for anything of value and leave them for the carrion birds.”

“As you command,” Aemon said as he clasped his fist across his chest.

“Then you know what to do Archon,” Aurion continued. “After you’ve cleaned up here go back to the ford and regroup with the rest of our people, I shall be awaiting your presence there.”

Aemon nodded and watched as Aurion tiredly mounted his dragon and flew west, towards Qohor and the rest of their people. No orders had to be given, his men already knew what was expected of them as they were checking one body after another for food, coin or other things of use. Further up, where the few tents they had used for the wounded stood he found Melisandre who looked about as tired as he did, moving from one wounded soldier to another, doing the best she could to treat their injuries.

Spotting him she led him into the tent that was reserved for him. Like his quarters both in Winterfell and in Castle Black it was very Spartan in nature. Few personal belongings or decorations. A bed, a chest for his clothes and a small stand for his sword and armour. “My Prince,” she said as she started to remove his armour.

By now he was used to the title she called him by, and as it was he was too damn tired to argue, instead he simply watched as she removed first one, then the other one of his bracers. Both of them made from the finest leather with fine scales of silver gold valyrian steel sown into them. His mail followed and he was as impressed this time as he was when he saw it for the first time. A long shirt of interlocking silver gold scales, each one of them shining like newly spun gold. The mail protected his chest and continued down all the way to the top of his knees, split in the front and back up to his waist to allow for more effective movement.

According to Aurion, mail like the one he had was common enough in the Freehold that even the average fisherman, providing he was of Valyrian descent could acquire one without too much cost, while outsiders, like Tommen II Lannister had to pay the cost of a Kingdom or more. Said Tommen had reputedly purchased a Valyrian steel greatsword for such a price that the smith who forged it had purchased a manse in Qohor that with the accompanying gardens was the size of the Black City in Volantis. Aemon also learnt that when King Tommen heard the price demanded for a suit of armour he had left Valyria in disgust.

Now though, with the knowledge all but lost, and so few dragons left, the price of a full suit of armour of Valyrian steel would probably be enough to bankrupt the entirety of Westeros.

“Careful,” Aemon gasped as Melisandre brushed against his side as she drew the surprisingly light mail over his head.

Melisandre narrowed her eyes in scrutiny as she removed the shirt he had worn underneath the mail. The silk shit was stained with sweat and blood and Aemon almost jumped when she placed her hand on his right ribs, the entire area was black and blue, and Aemon vaguely recalled an axe that he had been to slow to deflect hitting him good in between his ribs. The mail he wore protected him from disembowelment though the kinetic force of the strike had still taken its toll apparently.

“I cannot treat this here,” she said as she led him over to a large wooden tub that was the only vanity he had allowed himself. The water itself was cool, but Melisandre soon had it almost to the point of boiling, steam was rising and Aemon closed his eyes in comfort as he breathed in the fumes of whatever herbal remedies she had in the bath.

“Ahhh,” he sighed as he submerged his body in the water, the heat which should have left him scalding was as comforting as lying underneath heavy furs with a roaring hearth next to you during the depths of winter.

“The Lord of Light continues to favour you,” Melisandre said as she started to rub and massage his back and shoulders with a thick pine smelling cream. The cream itself tingled slightly, but left him feeling relaxed and fresh and he could feel his bruises or cuts quite literally disappear.

“My sword and my armour protected me,” Aemon rebutted. It had almost become a sort of game between them. Melisandre would preach about R’hllor and Aemon would rebut with whatever argument he had that might offer another explanation.

“And yet there are near a hundred others out there who wore the same if not more armour than you who cannot say the same, so why were you, who stayed in the front all the time spared, while several of your companions were not so fortunate?”

“I have months of-agh that’s the spot-training, whereas they have had a mere moon’s turn for the most part,” Melisandre had started to massage his abused right side, her deft hands and herbal remedy working wonders on his tired flesh.

“And yet, it is not the first time you’ve cheated death My Prince, need I remind you of Castle Black?”

It always came down to Castle Black. No matter how he twisted his mind and thoughts he could come to no rational explanation of why his life had been spared, nor why he had come to life four hundred years before he even died in the first place. The only rational explanation was that some sort of higher power had intervened, was it the Old Gods? Or R’hllor as Melisandre claimed. He had always ‘followed’ the Old Gods, though he was not particularly religious when it came down to it. He had believed and followed the Old Gods to a point, not only due to a lack of knowledge of other faiths, but also to emulate his ‘father’ and if he was honest to himself to also distance himself from Lady Catelyn

Their discussions often boiled down to this, and as usual Melisandre was the ‘victor’, he himself not being able to produce a better explanation. “When are you going to accept that you won’t convert me to the Red God?” Aemon asked with a slight grin.

“I need not convert you My Prince.” Aemon raised a questioning eyebrow at that. “You are his chosen champion, born to end the Long Night. Whether you believe in him or not does not matter, what does matter is that you continue your work.”

Now _that_ was a surprise. From what he had heard, and for that matter also seen in person, Melisandre was not usually that ‘forgiving’ to those who did not believe, then again. If she did believe that he was R’hllors chosen he supposed that he could be excused of a lot of things in her eyes.

“You must exercise more caution My Prince,” she said as she inspected a cut in his neck that he remembered quite vividly, the result of a thrusting spear that instead of piercing his jugular barely nicked him.

“A scratch Melisandre,” he protested as she twisted his head to the side so that she could attend to it properly.

“It is deep enough that if you were an eyeblink slower you would have bled out.”

“Hmm,” Aemon grunted noncommittally, his eyes and mind already distracted at the heaving breasts hovering a hairsbreadth away from him.

Melisandre noticed his staring and smirked slightly, the sinful look and inviting body that had nearly caved in his resistance in Castle Black battered down any resistance he had left now. With a grown of hunger and frustration he grabbed her waist and dragged her closer to him so that she was seated in his lap, her teats pressed against his chest.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>                                                                                                                                                **LEMON WARNING!!!!LEMON WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!** <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>                                                                                                                                               

“You have changed your mind,” Melisandre said huskily as she leant closer, so close that her lips were almost touching his and he could stare directly into her crimson eyes, the softly glowing light in them just making him more hungry for her.

“I have,” he said. There was no point denying it. It had been over a year since he last held or kissed Ygritte. He was tired and full of hot blood and energy at the same time. The sweet taste of assured destruction if one were to overdraw upon it that was magic, even the sensation of fighting for one’s life, it all added up to a cocktail of lust that swept through one’s body, and Aemon found that he could no more resist the alluring nude form of the Red Priestess than he could stop the sun from rising.

Rather than speaking Melisandre just grabbed his cock and lowered herself onto it. The combination of the hot water and the wondrous heat of her passage was almost enough to make Aemon lose control right there and then, it had been _far_ too long, yet he grit his teeth and tried his best to enjoy the sensation of Melisandre riding up and down on his cock as long as he could.

Fucking Ygritte had always been nice, she was quite wild, and loud, almost as if taking some sort of perverse pride in screaming as loudly as possible in the middle of camp, Jon’s tongue certainly hadn’t helped in that regard. Still for all of Ygritte’s wildness, nothing could beat the low sensual moans of Melisandre as she rode him slowly, her head thrown back in rapture while her eyes fluttered open and close. Her pose had the added effect of pushing out her chest, the dark nipples standing out and inviting Aemon to play with them, and he had no intention to refuse the invitation.

“Fuck;” he grunted in sudden surprise as Melisandre suddenly clenched around him, the sudden sensation almost sending him over the edge. In retaliation he attacked her teats, his lips immediately closing over her left nipple, sucking and biting like he was possessed while his hands harshly groped and massaged them.

The thing that finally did him in was the sight of Melisandre, almost glowing in otherworldly red light seize up. Her arms spread to the side while her chest heaved with heavy deep breaths, her mouth and eyes were wide open, and her cunt trembled and clenched around his cock drawing out his own end.

He must have sounded like a dying animal from how he groaned as his cock and balls twitched, sending jet after jet of his seed into her womb, until finally it was over, both of them collapsing with relief. He with his back to the tub while Melisandre was sprawled across from him.

“This. . .this means nothing,” he gasped, barely managed to keep his eyes open.

“I know My Prince,” Melisandre mumbled as she cuddled into his neck, her lips and tongue exploring his face and neck. “But you needed release, and will no doubt need it again. When the time comes I will be here.”

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>                                                                                                                                                **LEMON OVER!!!!LEMON OVER!!!!!!!** <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>                                                                                                                                              

It was a very tired force of soldiers that eventually wandered into the temporary camp that Aurion had set up on the west bank of the Qhoyne. It had taken them four days to create pyres and say their respects to their fallen brothers and sisters, Raheiros, the sole survivor of the three sorcerers that had been attached with Aemon’s defensive force was the one who actually knew the proper rites and benedictions, which had the added effect of also letting Aemon learn them without anyone knowing he had been ignorant of them. He learnt more and more of Valyrian rites and customs every day, mostly through subtly inviting discussions about rites and customs with his fellow ‘countrymen’, using the excuse that he wanted to hear their thoughts on them.

After the six and sixty men and eight and thirty women had been burned and their ashes scattered to the winds they had been forced to make half a dozen sleds to carry with them all the extra gear they had gathered from the dead. All the armour and weapons from their own fallen, as well as any weapon or armour of comparably good steel that their enemies had used. Most of the Sarnorians had also had generous rations as well as gold or silver in the form of coin and jewellery. Fortunately they had also managed to capture a good amount of the enemy horses, large sturdy breeds, similar to the working horses used in the North, to drag the sleds and also the most badly wounded.

Aemon himself had briefly entertained to walk at least some of the way, trying to let as many as possible do a bit of riding, but at the advice from Melisandre laid that motion to rest. As one of the Blood and their General he had an image that he needed to present. And even in Westeros, nobility never walked when they could ride, an exception was made when it came to places like King’s Landing where many nobles or rich knights were carried about in palanquins. Any man at least could avoid that, claiming that he was above such pathetic displays of laziness or opulence.

By the time they had reached the camp which had already been somewhat fortified with a spiked moat and palisade wall the sun was already on its way down. Aemon was impressed at how quickly they had grown. When he and Melisandre first tumbled out of the large fire in Aurion’s camp there were barely five hundred men and women who called Aurion Emperor. Now there were over five thousand of them, as more and more joined every day, both to live under the auspices of a Dragonlord once more, and also to escape the rapidly brewing chaos that was springing forth everywhere due to the collapse of the Freehold.

Riding through the camp towards the centre where Aurion’s own pavilion and his own would be, Aemon did his best to remain calm and emotionless in the face of a man or a woman suddenly spotting and subsequently running off to a family member or lover, while others looked worried or even burst into tears when it became obvious that one or more of their loved ones hadn’t returned.

Aemon was not a stranger to loss. He had been informed of more than one loss during the war against the Lannisters, but he had never had to deal with family of people who had lost loved ones due to his orders. It was a new experience, that he knew he would have to face countless times more, and that he never wanted to face again. Dismounting in front of Aurion’s pavilion he handed his sword over to Melisandre and entered.

Aurion and Rhaena were already seated at the table, Aurion quizzing his daughter on valyrian history, both of them looked up at his entrance. “You have returned,” Aurion stated.

“I have Your Grace, everything of value was brought along,” Aemon replied, speaking of the supplies they had looted.

“And our fallen brothers and sisters?”

“Returned to the fire and winds from which they came.”

Aurion nodded. “May the Fourteen welcome them into their warmth.” Looking Aemon over with a studying eye Aurion gestured to a chair that stood beside Rhaena. “Sit, you must be hungry.”

“And tired,” Aemon said as he sat beside Rhaena, giving a slight smile at his soon to be wife.

“You shall rest soon enough,” Aurion said while servants hurried in with a plate of fruits, cheese and dried meat. “We’ll reach Qohor within a week, I trust that will be enough time for our forces to get rested.”

Aemon nodded as he took a huge bite out of an apple. “A few days with some light training, perhaps a good long bath and they’ll be ready to go, do you expect trouble in Qohor?”

Aurion nodded grimly. “Our scouts have returned. Qohor is in full anarchy. Our Valyrian kin is holding control of the merchant quarter for now. The indigenous inhabitants who are in the majority have holed up in the slums, religious and noble quarters. Archon Qoheryk and his dragon are both dead, their heads lined up beside each other on spikes at the city gates. Scattered pockets of various other men run rampant through the city, killing and stealing whatever and wherever they please.”

Ameon nodded thoughtfully, the name Qohery sounded familiar for some reason. “That name. . .Qoheryk, it is familiar to me,” he said at last.

“I’m sure it does,” Aurion said. “They were a well known family of Dragonlords.”

“Do we know more about these rebels father?” Rhaena asked.

“Very little,” Aurion admitted. “It is said that their leader is a great Sorcerer, we do know at least that he sacrifices a dozen of our kin every day to his Black Goat God.”

Rhaena hissed in displeasure. “He must die,” she raged and Aemon agreed wholeheartedly. Live human sacrifice was distasteful.

“He will,” Aurion assured her, “And your husband to be will see to it that it is done.”

“As you command Your Grace,” Aemon replied. Taking a sip of wine to was down the last of his meal Aemon looked over the map that was spread out over the table. “Where is it that this sorcerer of theirs spend most of his time?”

Aurion’s face as awash with fury again, the same fury that had made the Valyrian Dragonlords so terrible, as Aejaxx seemed to be able to feel his master’s anger as the dragon let out a loud roar of fury from where he was curled up outside. “He resides in the home of the former Qoheryks, rumours has it that he keeps Saeharys’ wife and daughter as pets, sharing them with his friends and followers.”

Aemon didn’t even notice that the glass he held in his hand shattered in his grip, lacerating his hand badly. He knew, had always know that the world was not a pretty thing, but rape had been about the absolute worst in his mind, the fact that he had not immediately gelded every man on the Wall who had ended up there to escape having his cock cut off for rape was a testament to his ability to compromise he thought.

“I can assure you Your Grace, and you My Princess, I’ll drag him before you alive and screaming,” Aemon promised them.

“I knew my father chose well,” Rhaena said as she gave him a grin that sent his blood boiling.

He had always thought himself to be a man who was interested in redheads, first Ros who he had _nearly_ fucked when still living in Winterfell, and then Ygritte who he had lain with. But then he got to know Val, especially after she stuck around Castle Black along with a good number of the other Free Folk.

While he had never felt the same for Val as he had for Ygritte who he confessed to himself that he had probably loved, Val had aroused him far more in pure physical looks than Ygritte, and if Val ever admitted to having Valyrian ancestry Aemon would be the last to admit surprise, with her honey gold hair, grey blue eyes and pointed elegant features she could easily pass as someone with Valyrian blood, so he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised at all that he found Rhaena captivating, not only for her wits and stubbornness, but also for the fact that she clearly represented the best that Valyrian blood could produce.

“You have some idea?” Aurion asked as he saw Aemon studying the map closely.

“I think so Your Grace,” Aemon admitted. “We have eighty horses with us. A night attack, where you use your dragon to break open the two gates in our path and I will be able to reach his residence within ten minutes after passing the city gates, cut off the head of the snake as it were, and watch as the Qohorians collapse into anarchy while we rally whatever of our kin still resist the new rulers of the city.”

“It could work,” Aurion admitted as he studied the map closer. “Yes I see it, from the main gate it is a straight boulevard to the governor’s manse.”

“While I deal with the leadership, captain Vaelar can take the rest of our forces, with as many weapons as they can safely carry and move into the merchant district, distribute the weapons and stir our kin into reclaiming the city.”

“Then we have a plan,” Aurion agreed. “I will direct from above on Aejaxx and render aid where necessary, go and rest now Archon, we will need you well rested.”

As he was quite tired Aemon had no problem agreeing, so he bowed slightly, first to Aurion and then to Rhaena. “Your Grace,” he said before taking Rhaena’s hand to kiss it softly, feeling strangely pleased at the small blush he coaxed from her. “Princess.”

Receiving his dismissal he returned to his own tent, and despite how alluring the sight of Melisandre in his bed was he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

 

'Standard' Valyrian armour, each individual scale is of Valyrian steel. this is the kind of armour Aemon has currently.

**Author's Note:**

> This has already been posted to FFN on my profile there under the name 'Manowarrior' but I figure it is best to post here as well as a backup, after all this is ASoIaF and so will contain rather descriptive violence not to mention smut, and rather explicit smut at that between people who may or may not be of age by today's standards. My remaining works will also be posted eventually


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